


All the Good {that won't come out}

by mktellstales



Series: Watson - Holmes Verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child - parent relationships, Established Relationship, It's not as depressing at it sounds, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parent!lock, Threat of Break-up, Trying to fix a marriage, mentions of past infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 15:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3615144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving the bed and breakfast, John and Sherlock continue to work on pulling their marriage back together. In the meantime, someone from their past comes to stir things up a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Good {that won't come out}

"You're thinking about fucking them." Sherlock said.

 John jumped, startled by Sherlock's words. They were in the middle of a coffee shop for goodness sake, people waiting in front and behind them.

 "What? No, I'm not, and keep your voice down."

 Sherlock pressed his lips hard against John's ear, and whispered, "Mmm, yes, you are. And you've thought about it before."

 "Sherlock, please. I'm not-"

 "Good morning, Doctor."

 John's words were cut short by the always cheerful greeting of, June.  He turned from Sherlock, cheeks flushed red and smiled at her.

 "Morning." he said.

 "We haven't seen you all week; we were starting to get worried."

 "I was away on holiday."

 She looked between John and Sherlock, and a grin crept across her face.  "Usual for you?" she asked John.

 "Please. Yes."

 "And for you, Mr. Doctor?"

 Sherlock smirked at the attempt of her joke, "Oolong with lemon." he said to her.

 John paid for the drinks, and they waited at the other end of the counter. He picked up each cup when they were finished, and followed Sherlock out from the shop, handing his over once their feet hit the pavement.

 "So, how long have you been fantasising about threesomes with impossibly young baristas?"  Sherlock asked, blowing into the small opening of the lid on his tea.

 "I - they're just fantasies Sherlock, it isn't as if I've acted on them."

 "I know you haven't."

 John stopped on the pavement, and looked on as Sherlock kept walking ahead of him. John made a promise before they left the Bed and Breakfast that he wouldn't bring up, Sherlock's past indiscretion again - they argued, cried, and screamed over it enough, and there he was, bringing it up when he didn't even mean to.

 Sherlock was rather far ahead of him now, about to turn the corner home, so John gripped his paper cup tight and jogged to make up for the lost space between them.

 "I'm sorry." he said, back at his side.

 "You didn't mean it."

 John threw the remainder of his coffee in a bin on the street, and brushed his hand against the leather of  Sherlock's gloved hand. It felt strange to feel hesitant about holding onto his own husband's hand, but even after all the resolutions they made in the previous days, John still felt like they were treading on slowly sinking ground.

 As John started to take his hand away, Sherlock's fingers grabbed hold of his until each one became clasped together. They both knew that it was going to be the slow, small things like holding hands, that would gradually mend the wounds they had created.

 John admitted, when they were still in the glow of firelight, that he had lost his trust in Sherlock. He waited for him to tell John the mistake he had made, and when he didn't, he knew he should have said something - should have called him out the moment that he knew, Sherlock was being unfaithful, but he didn't, and as each day went on that neither of them said a word, John's trust flew away on a breeze, until he woke up one day, and there was hardly any left at all.

 Home was in their eyesight - the white walk up with painted blue shutters, and green door;  neatly trimmed bushes and a flower bed in the extra soil they acquired by choosing the corner lot.

 On the front doorstep was the addition of, Mycroft, smoke floating around his head from the burning edge of his cigarette.

 "I see your holiday has served its purpose." Mycroft said as his eyes set themselves to where their hands were still clasped together.

 "How did everything go?" John asked.

 "Fine. Your children are surprisingly well-behaved."

 "I think I'll pocket that one as a compliment. Thank you for staying with them."

 "You're welcome."

 John let go of Sherlock's hand, and went up the steps into the house, leaving Sherlock behind.

 Sherlock reached for the quickly offered cigarette between his brother's fingers and leaned down for a light.

 "Was everything fine?" he asked, sucking the tar and carcinogens into his lungs.

 "With the children, yes. There has been something of concern outside of your home in the last few days."

"Such as?"

 "At three o'clock, a cab has been stopped on the other side of the street. It idles for several minutes, and no one gets out. I could only make out a silhouette, and the CCTV catches nothing of any help."

 "It could be anything." Sherlock said.

 "It could, but if you've bothered to learn at all from your past, you know that _anything_ , is often _something_."

 "I'll keep an eye out."

 The brothers were silent, smoking the last of their cigarettes. "You and John; things are going to be alright?"

 "I do hate when you attempt to be caring. But yes, I believe we are going to be fine."

 "Good. " Mycroft said as he stood from the stoop, and smoothed down the lines of his trousers, and straightened out the center of his waistcoat. "I'd hate to see you moping around if it were otherwise. Have a good evening."

 Sherlock watched as a black car pulled up to the kerb, as if by a magical summoning, and Mycroft climbed inside. He tossed away the butt left in his hand, and went inside the house.

 It was quiet in there, and it felt empty. The children weren't downstairs, and John wasn't anywhere to be seen either. Sherlock followed the path of the floor runners and found John in the hallway, coming out from the bathroom.

 "Did you enjoy your cigarette?" John asked, smelling the smoke on him.

 "I did. I may have another later."

 "Do you have a second secret stash I don't know about?"

 "You don't know everything about me, John."

 John flinched, and Sherlock didn't need to be a genius to know what he had just done.

 "I didn't -"

 "I know."

 "We can't keep apologising for everything we say that the other construes in another manner." Sherlock said."We won't be able to say anything to each other."

 John ran the side of his finger along Sherlock's face, and gave him a small kiss.  "Things are still raw a bit. It's going to take time."

 "You're right." Sherlock put his own hand across where John's was resting, and tilted his head back just a little, to look better at the angles of his face. "I see the children are excited about our return."

 "Am I a terrible parent for wishing we had another couple days without them?"

 Sherlock's mouth covered the stubble of John's chin, and he kissed along to the corners of his mouth, hand finding sensitive skin underneath his waistband.

 "No. You aren't." he whispered.

 "Oi, put a sign up to let a person know you're going to be all over each other."

 They both jumped away from each other's grip at the booming echo of their son's voice against the walls of the hallway.

 "Glad to see you too, Finn."

Finn ignored them, and went on down the hall, and into the kitchen, where there soon was another bellow of his voice.

 " _We're out of milk_!."

 John leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder, and laughed. "Story of my life."

 After John went to the market to pick up the milk and everything else they needed to stock back up, he and Sherlock tried to stitch themselves back together, but, something they already knew was going to be hard, was proving to be even harder. Everything John said sounded like an accusation, everything Sherlock said sounded antagonistic, and every apology sounded more obligatory than remorseful. Disagreements about dinner turned into childish arguments over who got to always have their way, and who always had to sacrifice, but at least when they argued, they were talking to each other.

 And the sex... was angry.

 Each manifested their emotional pain into physical, and they would wake in the morning, weary and battle wounded.

 "Sherlock!"

 John was standing over him as he yelled for the third time. He knew damn well that Sherlock heard him; he was just being a twat. Which is what he was best at.

 "What?" Sherlock finally answered.

 "We need to go to the bank."

 "Why?"

 "I need to get into the savings account, and only the both of us together can access it."

 "What do you need the savings account for?"

 John pressed his thumb hard against the center of his forehead, trying to stave off the exploding headache buried just under the surface.

 "I took the kids to the dentist. Ethan needs braces."

 "Braces? No one in my family ever needed braces."

 "Well, now someone does. So, let's please go to the bank. I'm hungry, they're hungry, and I said I would pick dinner up on the way home."

 "Alright." Sherlock said before slowly uncrossing his legs, and stood up from the chair. "Let me get my coat."

 He pulled a hip length, double breasted coat from the hook at the door, and slid his arms into the sleeves. He had been wearing that one for almost as long as he had worn the Belstaff, maybe even longer, but John still missed the great, big, piece of wool. Maybe it wasn’t the coat he missed at all but the life which had come with it.

 John and Sherlock shuffled out the door, leaving the children to do their homework. Ten or so minutes went by when the doorbell buzzed, and Ethan, already downstairs in the kitchen looking for a snack, opened the door.

 On the stoop there was a woman with long, acorn hair. She was wearing a red leather jacket, and slipped off a pair of sunglasses when she saw Ethan.

 "Is your father home?"  she asked.

 "They're both out."

 “Of course. Might you know when you're expecting them back?"

 Before he could answer her. Emily came down the stairs, and pulled him away by the collar of his shirt.

 "Ethan, what are you doing?" she whispered.

 "The buzzer rang."

 "Dads would have a strop if you were answering the door without them home. Go do your homework."

 "I've finished."

 "Then go help, Finn."

 She pushed him, and brought her attention to the woman at the door. "Sorry about that, ma'am. Is there something I can help you with?"

 She faltered - opened her mouth and then shut it again like a gaping fish, before shoving her hands into her pockets, and trying again.

 "I was just looking for your father - for John Watson."

 "He and dad went out. I can let him know you came by."

 "No, no. That's alright. Will he be home tomorrow? I'm afraid I'm not familiar with his schedule."

 "Should be here all day."

 "Thank you."

 Emily smiled at her, and she smiled back, before stepping down and crossing the street to get into an idling cab. Emily closed the door, and went back to the essay she had been working on.

 It wasn't more than a half an hour before Sherlock and John came back, two pizza boxes in hand. They set them down in the kitchen, got down five plates and glassesbefore calling the kids in for dinner.

 "Some woman stopped by today."  Emily said, picking a mushroom from her slice and putting it on the side of her plate.

 "Who?" John asked.

 "She didn't say."

 "You didn't ask?"

 "No. I didn't think too. She was looking for you."

 "Was she in a cab?" Sherlock asked.

 John narrowed his eyes, and looked across the table to his husband, "Do you know something about this?"

 "Mycroft mentioned something. I kept an eye out, but there wasn't anything."

 "Mycroft mentions something suspicious, and you blow it off?" John said as he felt his voice slowly grow in anger.

 "I kept watch for days - no cabs came by."

 "And yet, the first day we're both out,  some woman comes looking for me."

 "I've maintained far more enemies than you."

 "Who all have a habit of using me to get to you - and there's no reason to think they wouldn't use them as well."

 "If I thought there was any kind of danger, I would have done something."

 "No. _This_ is exactly what you would do - pretend it was fine, keep secrets from me. God damn it, Sherlock, you promised me." John’s fist was balled up by his side, fingers itching against his knuckles to meet with Sherlock's jaw. "You've promised me a million times over, and you keep breaking it. What other promise are you going to take back on me?"

 "I'm not going to cheat on you again!" Sherlock yelled across the table.

 "How can I trust that?"

 "Stop it! Stop it, please!" Emily's voice came from in between theirs.

 Both John and Sherlock turned their attention to the shouting voice, and realized for the first time that they had been shouting in front of the children.

 "I'm sorry that I didn't ask her name, but she seemed nice, and said she would come back tomorrow, just please stop arguing."

 Her voice was breaking, and her eyes were on the brink of tears. John tried to reach out for her, to comfort her in some way, but she recoiled before he even touched her, and ran away from the table.

 "Shit." John mumbled, leaning back into his chair.

 "I'm sorry." he said to Ethan and Finn, "We're both sorry. Aren't we Sherlock?"

 "Yes. Sorry." Sherlock said to them.

 John let out a deep breath, before deciding he should go upstairs and talk with Emily. He knocked on her door, and got silence in return, so he knocked again. And when she didn't say anything for a second time, John nudged the door open, and went in to sit at the edge of her bed, where she was underneath the covers.

 "I'm sorry about downstairs. We shouldn't have argued like that in front of you and your brothers."

 "Why were you so upset I didn't get her name?" she asked.

 "I wasn't upset at that - I wasn't even upset at you. I was scared."

 "Why?"

 "Your father and I have a past that's primed us to expect the worst. You should have asked, but you said she's coming by tomorrow?"

 Emily nodded.

 "Then we'll get it all sorted tomorrow."

 "Did Dad really cheat on you?"

 "That isn't something you should concern yourself with."

 "I've never seen you that angry with each other."

 "We try to fight away from you."

 "You almost hit him."

 "I did, you're right. Your father and I are going through some things, yes. You don't need to know the specifics."

 "Are you going to break up?" Emily asked as she crawled out of the covers.

 John didn't answer her. He tried to, but he soon realized, he couldn’t.

 "You don't know, do you?"

 "What I do know, and what he knows, is that we love you, we love Ethan, and Finn, and we _do_ love each other- I know that we still do. And that's all you need to know too."

 He kissed the top of her head, and left, closing the door behind him. When he got back down the stairs, the kitchen table was empty. He went into the living room where, Sherlock was at the bay window, violin case taken out from the bench underneath, and open on the cushions of the sofa.

 It had been a long time since John had seen that instrument. Sherlock used to teach the children how to manipulate the strings into a beautiful sound, and he used to play soft melodies to lull them to sleep, but then it got put away, and almost forgotten about, until now.

 "How are the boys?" John asked, sitting in a chair, as he watched Sherlock tighten the strings _. Plucking - turning - plucking._

 "They're fine." Sherlock said; eyes never leaving his instrument.

 "Christ, Sherlock, that was a disaster. You should have told me."

 "I didn't want to worry you if it was nothing. Which, I thought it was."

 "You and I are partners. Before everything else, that's what we've always been, and I need you to tell me when something is going on. No matter what. You're right, it probably is nothing, and I'm over reacting, but you should have told me."

 "I get it, John. Between the two of us, I'm the only one ever at fault. I keep things from you, I sleep around on you - and apparently, you believe I'll do it again. I understand, so spare me one of your moral high ground lectures!" Sherlock snapped.

 "I-I don't do that." John managed out, almost having to force the words out of his mouth.

 "Don't you? _'Bit not good, Sherlock - timing, Sherlock - that isn't right, Sherlock. You're a machine, Sherlock.'_ You've always thought yourself better than me."

 "You know what, I'm tired. I don't want to do this right now. I'm going to the pub."

 "You shouldn't go out alone."

 "I'll be fine."

 Sherlock was going to protest more, but as John grabbed his coat from the front closet, and stormed out, he decided there was nothing else to say. If John stayed, they would argue, and Sherlock didn't have the energy or the desire to argue with John anymore.

 There weren't a lot of things which Sherlock regretted about his life, despite there being plenty of things he maybe should regret, but what was the point in wishing you hadn't done something you already did?

 And that was how he tried to view his affair. He knew that it was wrong in the same way he knew pushing heroin into his veins was wrong, but he did it anyway.

 Because he was curious, because he was selfish, because he wasn't good enough for the life he was living, and because he had never been good enough for, John.

 He tightened the last string of his violin to its proper place, and pulled the bow over them. He just needed to play.

 While Sherlock was turning his fear and sadness into a quiet melody, John, John sat at the bar of the pub, and listened to the sound his ring made against the glass of  his almost empty  pint. There were beautiful women and men everywhere. John chose to set his eyes upon his drinking glass as he rhythmically tapped his fingers against its surface, trying to ignore their unusually strong draw.

  But,  who was he kidding? He thought about it -  he thought about slipping that ring from his finger and putting it in his pocket for no one to see.

 He spun it around the first bend in his finger, and watched a blonde in tight jeans, and an open blouse cross from the loo to the other side of the bar. She leaned against the old, lacquered top, and ordered her drink loud enough for John to hear - vodka seltzer with an orange slice. When she leaned back up to take her money from her pocket, she caught John's gaze and winked.

 John closed his left hand into a fist, and let the ring fall into his palm. He then put it into his pocket, picked up his pint, and found the girl at a dark table in the back.

 "Mind if I join?" he asked, standing behind an empty chair.

 "Please do." she said.

 "Thank you. The bar was getting a bit crowded."

 "That's why I sit back here.”

 John watched her run her finger along the rim of her glass, and across the thin rind of the orange. He recognized the tone in her voice, the one that told him if he was interested, she was too.

 "I'm John." he said, leaning over the table.

 "Carol."

 John found out that Carol had just turned thirty, she had no children, and had never been married - though she had been asked a time or two. John told her he had three children from previous relationships, and was once divorced, but he made no mention of Sherlock at all.

 They ordered more drinks, and John moved from across the table to right next to her. Their feet brushed and lingered underneath the table. John brushed a strand of hair away from Carol's eyes, and Carol kept her hand on John's bicep long after the joke he made to put it there in the first place.

 For a long while, John was actually feeling good.

 "I live just across the street." Carol said to him. "If you wanted, you could come over."

 John almost didn't hesitate to say yes. He could go home with her, he could fuck her, and he knew that he would enjoy it. And then he could go home in the morning, and tell Sherlock what he had done. Or better yet, let Sherlock deduce it on his own.

 Yes was on the tip of his tongue, but then he put his hand into his pocket, and felt the cold metal of his ring inside, and he immediately felt like he was going to be sick.

 John pushed the chair back so hard, that both he and it nearly toppled over.

"I'm sorry, Carol, but I can't." he said. "I want to, believe me, but not for the right reasons."

 "You're not actually divorced, are you? Just separated or something?"

 "No, I really am divorced. I'm just married again."

 He pulled out his ring, and slid it back to its proper place on his finger.

 "I'm sorry." he said.

 Carol shrugged her shoulders, "Rather a disappointing night for me than you and your wife being disappointed in yourself for the rest of your lives."

 "My husband, actually."

 "Oh, well, just the same." She said.

 John nodded to her, and left. It was only a few blocks from home, and he thought the fresh air might do him some good, so he walked, and when he got home, before he even went inside, he saw Sherlock just where he left him; in the window, eyes closed, and violin tucked gently underneath his chin. He was beautiful as he ever was, cast in the dim shadow of only lamplight from inside.

 John opened the door, and sat on the sofa.

 "I felt it, tonight." he said, without a greeting.  "That temptation. I know how it feels to have that opportunity dangled in front of you, and to want to take it, but I didn't. I thought of you, and I couldn't do it. Why was it so easy for you?"

 "I thought we weren't to talk about this anymore?"

 "I'm pissed, Sherlock, and I just gave up the chance to reap some vengeance, so just indulge me."

 Sherlock set the violin down on the bench in front of him, and turned to look at John. "It wasn't easy. We spent several weeks together, him judging my reception, and me pretending to be oblivious to his advances. I didn't want to, at first, but then I kissed him, because I-"

 "Wanted to, I know."

 "I can't explain it beyond that."

 "I've always thought with your intelligence, and with your empirical view on the world that you were the stronger of us. You had me believing that perhaps emotions were something weak, but my emotion for you just stopped me from doing something I would regret forever, and your lack of them-"

 "I regret it, alright? Is that what you want to hear? I have apologized, I have sworn to never let it happen again, and it wasn't worth this. It wasn't worth the prospect of losing you. Because despite what you think, what you always throw in my face when you're upset at me, I do _feel_."

John let his head fall into the palms of his hand, and he sat there like that for several seconds, listening to the angry rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. When he finally lifted his head, he took a long look at the other man, and stood up.

 "I'm tired, Sherlock, and I'm tired of arguing with you, and I need to deal with this mystery woman thing, tomorrow...I'm going to bed."

 "John?" Sherlock called after him.

 "What?"

 Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but quickly changed his mind.

  "Nothing. Goodnight." He said.

 In the morning, after a sleepless night, John got everyone, but himself out of the house. Sherlock all but begged to stay, but John insisted that it was something he wanted to deal with alone. Sherlock took the kids to a cafe nearby, and John sat in his chair, waiting for the knock on the door.

 It finally came, two hours later, and he answered it. There was a part of him that went, _of course, it's her. I knew it all along’_ when he saw her on the other side.

 "Mary." John said, breathless, taking in the aged form of her face. There were wrinkles where there once were none, and the corners of her mouth drooped a little more than they used to.

 "Hello, John." she said.

 "What are you doing here?" he asked, stepping outside on the stoop rather than inviting her to come inside.

 "I saw one of your sons" she said, in lieu of an answer, "Ethan, I think. He's handsome."

 "That's why we chose Sherlock's genes."

 "He's what; twelve years old?"

 "They're twins, and they'll be thirteen in a couple of months."

 Mary laughed, "Was the ink even dry on our divorce papers before you jumped into bed with him?"

 "I don't think you came here after all this time to talk about my relationship with Sherlock, so what is it you want?"

 The smile on Mary's face faded. It was nervous, and it was fake - it was the same smile John saw for the years they were together, and it made the bile in his stomach churn and pull.

 "I want to see Emily." she said.

 "No."

 "She's my daughter."

 "She is _my_ daughter, she is _Sherlock's_ daughter, but she isn't yours. Not anymore."

 "John -"

"You left her." he shouted,  "She was a year old, and you walked away."

 "You and I were splitting. You couldn't even look me in the eye. I didn't know what to do."

 "Fine. You were angry and scared - you ran away, but fifteen years, Mary? One, two, even five, I might have understood, but fifteen? Where have you been - what have you been doing?"

 "Kathryn."

 "What?"

 "My name is Kathryn now."

 "Right, had to find another identity after you burned through your last one."

 Mary sighed, "I moved to Cardiff, and work at a bank. I married about six years ago."

 "Does he know about your past?"

 "He knows I was married before. And he knows I left a daughter behind. But otherwise he knows the same story you did."

 "And he doesn't question it?"

 "You wouldn't have either if Sherlock never came back."

 "Or if your aim had been better." he said underneath his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

 John knew that it was a low blow, but Mary - _Kathryn_ \- whoever she was deserved any blow that John could deliver her.  

 "I made a mistake" she said. "I made many with you, and with Emily, and I'd like to remedy some if I can."

 "I'll talk it over with Sherlock."

 Mary laughed, "As if he'd ever agree."

 "Likely not, but unlike you, I don't keep secrets from my husband."

 There was no reason to tell her that he’s kept secrets from him, however.

 Mary pulled a slip from her jacket pocket and scribbled down her mobile number, and held it out to John. He was hesitant, but then he took it anyway. She gave John one more cursory look, and stepped down onto the pavement.

 "Oh, Mary?" John called after her. "It was three days before your barrister served me at the clinic. And all I kept thinking as he shagged me completely stupid, was why did we ever wait so long?"

 Mary smirked, and shook her head. "Charming, John." she said, and walked across the street to her cab.

 John crumpled up the paper in his fist, and thought about tossing it in the garden. But he ended up shoving it into his trouser pocket instead. He went inside the house, and sent a text message to Sherlock, telling him to bring the kids back home.

 He waited, not long, and they were back. The children didn't even need to be asked to go to their bedrooms. The tension was thick, and the narrow of John's eyes was enough for them to understand to make themselves scarce.

 "Well?" Sherlock asked as he stood in the middle of the living room, arms crossed over his chest, and foot tapping nervously against the rug below.

 "It was Mary." John said.

 "Mary?"

 "Yes. She wants to see Emily. Can you believe that? I should have punched her in the face. She might be a woman, but she deserves it. Deserves more than that. It's like she knew that I was already hanging on by a thread. Waited until I couldn't handle one more thing to come and pull this bullshit."

 John ranted, and Sherlock stood patiently, letting his husband fly off the edge he was always so precariously perched upon. John's anger fascinated Sherlock. It sat just below the surface, constantly threatening to bubble up and take down everything and everyone in its path. It had to be exhausting for someone like John; so sensitive to the world around him, to carry around that kind of tense fear and anger for the majority of his life, to feel good when he lets go, but under the impression that he shouldn't.

 "Come here." Sherlock requested, quietly.

 John looked at him, protest starting to build on his face, but he pulled himself across the room and stood in front of Sherlock.

 Sherlock turned him around, and pressed his fingers deep into the tissue of John's shoulders, pulling and smoothing the knots in his muscles.

 "God, that's brilliant."  John purred.

"I think you should tell Emily what's going on, and let her decide if she wants to see Mary."

 "You're joking, right?"

 "I never joke."

 "That's been all too clear these last twenty years. I can't possibly tell Emily her mother has come back - I've never told her that she actually has one. We've always let her assume that we used a surrogate just the same as the boys."

 "Perhaps it's time to tell her the truth." Sherlock said as he replaced his fingertips with the heel of his hand, digging out the heavy sadness that lived just under John's skin.

 "I- yeah. Maybe you're right."  he said.

 John pulled away from Sherlock, and left him alone. He went into his bedroom, and dug around in the back of their wardrobe for a box he hadn't seen in a long time, and if he was going to tell Emily about her mother, he would need what was inside.

 But, it was days before John worked up the courage. Days, where he silently sat across from Sherlock at the dinner table, too distracted to worry about the dissolution of their marriage, and Sherlock left him alone; not knowing what he should do, or if he should do anything at all. If John wanted to walk away, maybe it would be best to just let him do so.

 "Sherlock?"

 Sherlock shook his head out of the book he was reading in bed, and looked up to see John standing in the doorway. He couldn't remember the last time they were in the room together, the last time they were in the bed together. They had just become two shadows, never crossing in the same patch of light.

 "I could use your help, with Emily."

 Sherlock nodded, and set his book on the nightstand, and followed John into the kitchen where Emily was already sitting at the table.

 They sat next to each other, across from her, and took in several seconds of silence before John spoke.

 "Emily...we need to tell you something."

 "Oh god, you're splitting aren't you?" she asked with worry in her voice.

"No." John said while he placed a hand over Sherlock's, resting it on the table, "We're still working on things. This has to do with your mother."

 "My mother?"

 "Yes. That woman who came by the other day. She’s your mum."

 "You mean the surrogate that carried me?"

 John laughed, because in so many ways that was how it felt.

 "Not exactly." he said.

 Sherlock picked up a box from the floor and opened the lid after setting it on the table. He began to lift out the photographs that had been kept inside it for years.

 He fanned them out in front of Emily, starting slowly, with just photos from John and Mary's wedding. He and John watched Emily's eyes widen with each new image she took in.

 "I-I don't understand." she said.

 "Before your dad and I were married, I was married to that woman. Her name is Mary Morstan."

 They may have decided to tell Emily the truth, but that didn't necessarily mean the whole truth.

 "How long were you married to her?"

 "A little over two years."

 Emily singled out a photograph, and held it up for her parents to see. It was John standing between Mary and Sherlock.

 "You were in the wedding?"

 "I was."

 "That's a bit awkward."

 "Yes. It was."

 "Can we get back on topic, please?" John asked.

 He pulled out another stack of photos: Mary pregnant and sitting on the stoop of their home in the suburbs, lying in the bed they once shared; standing naked in their bathroom, showing off her belly. It wasn't a happy time for them, truly, but John had been doing his best, and the pregnancy was the one thing that held them together.

 Another stack showed John and Mary at the hospital holding Emily. Until then, she had only ever seen pictures of just John holding her. There were more, of Mary feeding her on the sofa, sleeping with her in the chair, and pushing her in a pram through the park.

 Emily was starting to feel dizzy. She pushed the photos away, so that they weren't so close.

 "What happened?" she asked.

 "We tried to stay together; for you, but things were...complicated. We decided to split, and then one day, she left."

 "She just left us? Why?"

 "I don't really know. But, she's come back now, and she wants to see you."

 "Why didn't you tell me about her before?"

 "I didn't want you to feel abandoned by her. I thought it was better if you thought it was always just us. Because, really, is has always just been us.”

 "Did she leave because of you and dad, or have you always just been lousy at keeping a marriage together?"

 "You don't speak to your father like that." Sherlock said, firmly.  "Mary left, because she was selfish - she had always been selfish."

 "So, what then? She just casually drops by, and I'm meant to be her daughter again?"

 "She only wants to see you, and you don't have to if you don't want to." John said to her.

 "Do you think I should?"

 "I think it's a decision you need to make on your own."

 "Do you think I should?" Emily asked again.

 John sighed. "Honestly, I would prefer that you never know her, never see her. If there are things I'm having trouble forgiving your father for, there are things I can _never_ forgive her for. But this isn't up to me. If you want to meet her, speak with her; know her, for any reason, I won't stop you, and I won't hold it against you. You're almost seventeen years old, Emily. You can make your own decisions."

 Emily picked up a photo of Mary holding her in her arms, and rubbed her thumb over Mary's face.

 "I'll think about it." she said, dropping the photo back onto the table, and pushing out the chair.

She started down the hallway, and up the stairs only to run into her brothers at the top, sitting side by side with their knees to their chests.

 "Are they splitting up?" Ethan asked.

 "No, but they are liars."

 "Then what was it about?"

 "My mother."

 "You're surrogate?"

 "Oh, no. Turns out I wasn't mixed together with some of dad's genes and a mystery egg and then popped into a human oven. I was made the old fashioned way - one husband, one wife."

 Both Finn and Ethan looked at her with their eyebrows furrowed.

 "Dad was married you idiots. He was married, I was born and then she left, and dads have been lying to me since."

 "Dad was married to a woman?" Finn questioned. "He's gay."

 "It isn't always black and white like that Finn. Sometimes people like both, sometimes they don't like any."

 "That's so weird."

 "Not really, Finn."

 Emily pushed her way between the two of them. "Great. Well, you two can stay here and discuss the weirdness of dad's sexuality, which is weird in itself, and I'll be in my room."

 She stomped across the small landing, and slammed the door of her room.

Downstairs, John jumped at the sound of the slam echoing through the vents. He looked down at the photos still spread in front of them on the table.

 "You do look miserable."  he said of a photo from the wedding.

 "I was." Sherlock told him, bluntly.

 "I was such a fool when you came back. But I had tried so hard to move on from you, and I was so angry at myself for being too afraid to tell you how I felt before you were gone, just because I didn't want another bruise on my ego from you."

 "Another?"

 "At Angelos; that first night. I couldn't have come on any stronger than if I was splayed naked across the table. And you shot me down - said you were married to your work."

 "That was the truth."

 "I only wanted a one off." John said, laughing.

 "I know. But what would have happened to us, to our work, our friendship, if I gave in to my carnality and shagged you that night?"

 "Maybe we would have gotten here sooner."

 "Maybe we wouldn't have gotten here at all."

 They looked at each other, with all the seriousness they could muster. John reached a hand out and rested in on Sherlock's cheek.

 "I don't want to fight with you anymore, Sherlock. We've been through so much, we have so much. Are we really going to throw it all away?"

 Sherlock reached for John's hand and gently stroked it with his thumb. "I'd rather not." he said.

 "It's still going to take time, I'm still angry, but I want to start over."

 "Anything you want, John."

 He leaned over and closed the small space left between them with a kiss to John's lips. What started slow, and hesitant; both pairs of lips out of practice with the other, quickly became heated with no rhythm to the mash of their mouths or the swirl of their tongues. Sherlock had nearly climbed into John's lap, resting both of his hands on the other man's thighs, fingertips brushing over the seam of his jeans.

 "Honestly, you two." Finn's voice echoed against the kitchen walls, and John and Sherlock dismantled their lips, their foreheads resting against one another.

 "I came down here for hot chocolate, but I think I lost my appetite for it."

 John laughed, " Oh, Come on. Hot chocolate sounds good."

 He gave Sherlock another kiss to the roll of Finn's eyes, and stood up. He pulled out the large pot from underneath the stove, and the bars of chocolate from the candy drawer while Sherlock took out the cream and the milk from the fridge.

 

The chocolate began to melt and bleed out into the milk warming over the stove. Sherlock stirred the pot and John brought the mugs down from the cupboard, and the marshmallows from the drawer.

 

So far, it was only the boys who had made it downstairs, and John thought that maybe Emily wouldn't come at all. But just as the sweet liquid was being poured, her slippered feet shuffled across the hardwood, and she silently slinked into a chair. Sherlock filled one last mug, and John dropped three more marshmallows.

 When all the drinks were gone, pyjamas on, and teeth brushed, each kid said goodnight, and made their way upstairs.

 John was sitting in his chair, eyes half closed, and mind mostly asleep when he felt cold fingers snake along the nape of his neck, and across to his chin where they pushed back his head.

 John, of course knew it was Sherlock, but the upside down distortion of his beautiful, alien face  was still a breathtaking surprise.

 Sherlock bent over him, and slowly kissed John’s lips. He let go of John's chin, and ran the flat of his hands underneath John's t-shirt and over his chest.

 "You taste like chocolate." John said when Sherlock pulled his lips away.

 "So do you."

 Sherlock kissed him again, "If you're too tired-"

 "No."

 It felt right, and it felt good to be with Sherlock in this sort of way. There was no tension, no apprehension  - only the kind of absolute desire he thought he had, running through his veins.

 "I need to be with you." John said.

 He gripped Sherlock's arms, and pulled him around the chair and down until he was across his lap, so John could kiss him.

 They could have stayed there, swapping lazy spit until the sun rose, but it wasn't enough.

 They maneuvered enough to get out of the chair, and into their bedroom. The bed was still unmade from where Sherlock slept the previous night alone, and John threw the covers to the floor, leaving an empty canvas for them to lie across.

 Sherlock's body was warm underneath the clothes he wore, and as John peeled each piece away, the autumn breeze from the open window chilled against his skin and made him shiver in a way that John liked.

 They were naked; John, belly down against the mattress, and Sherlock above him. Their hands were clasped; fingers twined above their heads, and Sherlock's cheek rested on the sharp blade of John's shoulder, feeling it roll out and underneath his muscle with each long snap of his hips.

 Rain had just started outside. It trickled over the sill and down the wall to the top of their dresser. It would leave spots, maybe it would even pool underneath their watches or seep through the cracks of their picture frames, but it wasn't important, not in that moment.

 "I love you." Sherlock whispered. "More than I wanted - so much more."

 "I love you, Sherlock. I love you. I love you."

 John whispered it over and over until the words lost their sound, engulfed in deep, rumbling moans, and breathless pants until they rose again on the edge of his cries.

 And when there was nothing left but the splatter of the rain and the softening of their breath, they fell asleep.

 When morning came for them, John woke to the soft sound of knocking against the bedroom door. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and listened again to a voice that was coming from the other side.

 "Dad? Are you up?"

 It was Emily.

 John slipped out of bed, and slid into his dressing gown. He picked the duvet up from where it had fallen on the floor in the middle of the night, and covered it over Sherlock's long, naked form.

 He went out into the hallway, careful to shut the door quietly behind him.

 "I want to meet her." Emily said, wasting no time.

 "Are you sure?"

 "I have too."

 John pulled her into a hug, cupping her head against his chest, and leaving a kiss to her golden mess of hair.

 "Alright. I'll give her a call."

 "Are you disappointed in me?"

 "What? No, of course not." he kissed her again. "Why don't you go start on a breakfast, and I'll get your father up?"

 John let her go, and went back into the bedroom. He pulled back the covers, and sidled up against where Sherlock still slept soundly. He would wake him, yes, but he would take just a few minutes to listen to their breath mingle in time.  

 


End file.
